


kaneohe

by novoaa1



Series: chance encounters [3]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alcohol, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bickering, Bottom Natasha Romanov, Choking, CyberTek, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Face Slapping, Girls with Guns, Guns, Hotel Sex, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Overstimulation, POV Natasha Romanov, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rough Kissing, Roughness, Sexy times!, Slapping, a smidge of degradation kink, bamf yelena belova, big mad big upsetti 24/7, but it's also complicated dude, everyone thinking natasha is hot, grumpy yelena belova, i'll be the first to say it, just u know like. sprinkled in there, natalie rushman shows up for .2 seconds!, natasha gets introspective about submitting to yelena, passive aggressive girlfriends who are like 'lets argue and then start fucking midway through', the smut got. a little bit out of hand, the usual, top yelena belova, which is objectively true, yelena is angry lady, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Yelena hops down from the 32nd floor onto the balcony (rather than using the door), picks the sliding door lock and approaches Natalia on the bed with loaded Glock 19s in either hand and a murderous glare to match.Drama queen.“You have some nerve, following me,” Yelena drawls flatly in thickly-accented English, laying one Glock atop the desk while the other remains trained steadfastly between Natalia’s brows.A perfect kill shot, even if she won’t take it.“What’s the matter,Rooskaya?” Natalia pouts, feigning disillusionment even as she stares down the barrel of Yelena’s gun. “Not happy to see me?"
Relationships: Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanov
Series: chance encounters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809355
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	kaneohe

**Author's Note:**

> do i have an excuse for this one? no. no i do not
> 
> i need to write for my other stories but this actually would not leave me alone 
> 
> also yelena x nat is honestly a fye ship i'm down for it

**Kaneohe, 1997**

After Taipei, Yelena resurfaces in the States a month later—Hawai’i. More specifically, the densely-populated island of Oahu. 

Natalia is nearby at the time—Miami. There, Cybertek Industries stores a wealth of hard-copy files in one of the conglomeration's three subsidiary locations scattered across the States. 

She infiltrates the establishment two weeks ahead of schedule (very nearly blowing her cover in the process), kills a hell of a lot more people than she had originally planned, and catches the very next flight out. 

Paranoid? Sure. Overbearing? Possibly. 

But there’s that line from that American novel: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.” Joseph Heller. _Catch-22_. 

Taipei was a trap, and they both know it. (Even if Yelena is far too stubborn to say it aloud.)

They were trying to snare a Widow, and they damn near got two for the price of one in the process. 

And so, here she is, playing the part of a haole tourist—faux designer shades on her face, ocean-blue beach bag over one shoulder, simple black bikini and sheer crimson-red sarong slung low on her hips. She has twin Glock 19s, an Uzi SMG, and an assortment of knives in the bag. Plus, the silver hair pin protruding from her messy bun is sharp enough to maim (and act as a suitable lock pick, if necessary)—but no one else (sans her) needs to know that. 

Yelena’s rendezvous in Waiola with a heavily-tattooed Polynesian man (a runner for The Company, otherwise known as the Hawaiian Syndicate) goes off without a hitch. It’s a simple exchange of information, as per Yelena’s mission parameters. No sign of Cybertek, or bulky homicidal men with beetle-shaped intravenous filters attached to their inner forearms. 

Yelena’s next meet is with Tadamasa Goto—prominent member of the Yakuza, widely hailed under the (somewhat ostentatious, in Natalia’s opinion) epithet “the John Gotti of Japan.” He’s dangerous, but he’s clean (in the loosest sense); Natalia vetted him thoroughly earlier that day. She also knows very well that Goto is technically barred from entering the States indefinitely—which is as good a reason as any for him to keep a low profile while on Oahu, thereby rendering any real potential threat to Yelena at his hands more or less moot.

No, he’s harmless (—or, as harmless as it gets in their line of work), and Natalia sees no reason to pursue the avenue any further. 

Still, she doesn’t leave. Not quite yet. 

There’s a tingling sensation beneath her skin at the knowledge that Yelena is _here_ —pins and needles and the promise of something a hundred times sweeter on her mind, a familiar warmth settling low in her gut that has everything to do with Yelena and absolutely nothing to do with the blonde tourist she propositioned at the hotel bar currently pinning her against the wall, biting hickeys into her neck.

She swipes the blonde’s room key under the guise of lustful groping, then pretends she’s changed her mind about bedding her and sends her on her way. 

She rubs the plastic card on a phone she swiped from a middle-aged man at the beach who wouldn’t stop staring at her tits until it’s sure to be demagnetized, then scurries over to the front desk with a harried grimace and pleading eyes. 

“My key won’t work,” Natalie Rushman pouts to the pale faced teenaged attendant on duty. “Please, can you help me?"

He can’t be older than 19. His eyebrows are shaggy and unkempt, his wide brown-eyed gaze darting down to her breasts and back up to her face then off at some random point behind her like he can’t quite decide where is appropriate to look. 

_Definitely straight_ , Natalia thinks to herself with a smirk. 

“I tried it three times, and I’m already _so_ late for brunch,” she continues woefully, then leans over the counter and shyly offers up her key card. The boy’s eyes are drawn to her chest like a moth to an open flame for a second longer than can be considered passable, and she knows that she has him. “Can you fix it?”

“I-I—Yes, Ma’am, of course. Wh-What’s the room number?”

— — 

Crisp, cool, well-conditioned air scented with tropical springtime. 

High-end minibar, fully stocked—Patrón, Crystal Head, Jansz Vintage Rosé… Jackie Daniels. 

A spacious balcony overlooking Kailua Beach.

Grand suite. 

King-sized mattress. Supima cotton sheets; 1,000 thread count. 

None of it looks lived in. There’s no telltale clue to be found indicative of the fact that Yelena had indeed slept here last night, but she knows that that’s simply par for the course. A byproduct of their training. 

If anything, the distinctive vacancy of the room—the utter lack of disarray, its near picture-perfect presentation… they only serve as further proof that the suite’s inhabitant is someone meticulous, someone well-trained. Someone _good_.

_Yelena_. 

She untucks the sheets, yanks down the duvet, tosses an overly-plush pillow off to the wayside just because she can. 

This isn’t about stealth right now, nor espionage. 

She unfastens the sheer scarlet-red sarong tied around her waist, drapes it indolently over a nearby armchair beside the desk. 

She stops by the minibar, next; surveys the tolerable selection of bottled spirits displayed neatly atop clear-glass shelves with apathetic eyes. 

The skull-head bottle so quintessential of Crystal Head Canadian vodka is a bit flashy for her tastes. She figures French-manufactured Grey Goose will have to do.

She grabs the tall, slim bottle by the neck; checks the seal thrice, unscrews its berry-blue cap and sniffs it carefully before taking a small sip.

The vodka burns pleasantly going down, a kernel of warmth blooming in her belly. 

10 minutes and no adverse side effects later, she indulges herself: draws a long pull from the bottle. 

The burgeoning warmth of it expands steadily in her stomach.

She leaves the bottle (uncapped) atop the nightstand before slipping into bed—propping herself up against an abundance of plush velvety pillows, naked save for the small black bikini upon her sun-kissed figure (courtesy of weeks spent doing reconnaissance in Miami). 

And then… well. Then, she waits.

— — 

Yelena hops down from the 32nd floor onto the balcony (rather than using the door), picks the sliding door lock and approaches Natalia on the bed with loaded Glock 19s in either hand and a murderous glare to match. 

_Drama queen_. 

“You have some nerve, following me,” Yelena drawls flatly in thickly-accented English, laying one Glock atop the desk while the other remains trained steadfastly between Natalia’s brows.

A perfect kill shot, even if she won’t take it.

“What’s the matter, _Rooskaya_ ?” Natalia pouts, feigning disillusionment even as she stares down the barrel of Yelena’s gun. “Not happy to see me?"

Yelena comes to a halt at the foot of the bed. “Did you think that I would be?”

Natalia shrugs. “Hoped, more like.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Yelena snaps, indignation flaring in her gaze. “Why are you here?”

Natalia resists the urge to snort. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“You know, I never got a 'thank you’ for Taipei.”

Yelena’s grip on the gun tightens; hazel eyes flare with renewed anger. “I never asked you to do that.”

“What, to save your ungrateful ass?” If at all possible, Yelena manages to look even more vindictive at that. "You’re welcome.” 

“Shut up."

Natalia smirks, rising to her knees atop the mattress and shuffling closer to Yelena despite the gun trained steadfastly upon her all the while. She doesn’t stop when the cool metal barrel presses up against her forehead, just advances a little further on her knees until it weighs against her flesh hard enough to sting—resolute. Unblinking.

“C’mon, _Rooskaya_ ,” she coaxes, reaching to unclasp the strapless top of her two-piece suit. “I’m just playing.”

She tugs at the garment in one hand, lets gravity do the rest of the work before tossing it carelessly off to the side. Cool air rushes across newly bared flesh, raising her nipples to stiff, turgid peaks. She sits back upon her heels, resting either well-manicured hand daintily in her lap—the very picture of doe-eyed docility. 

To Yelena’s credit, her gaze doesn’t waver—nor does the gun in her white-knuckled grip. The only outward indication that Natalia’s little display is at all getting to her is present in the tightness of her jaw, the slight twitch in her left eye. 

“You play far too often, Natalia,” Yelena admonishes, though there’s a slight undercurrent to her stern tone that only confirms twice over what Natalia already knows—Yelena’s composure is rapidly waning. 

_Good_.

Natalia pouts, tilting her head curiously at Yelena. “But won’t you play _with_ me, just this once?" 

It happens quickly, then—strong fingers curling tightly around her throat, yanking her forward. 

The gun is gone (thrown to the carpeted floor three paces to the left, Natalia can see out the corner of her periphery) and Yelena’s grip around her neck is rigid enough to hinder the flow of air without cutting it off entirely.

“There she is,” Natalia remarks breathily, surrendering willfully into the hand currently threatening to crush her windpipe. “I was beginning to worry you’d—"

She’s stopped mid-taunt by a pair of lips crashing into hers, pulling her into a bruising kiss. It’s messy, and rough—all teeth and wordless groans and Yelena’s wet tongue plundering her mouth like she owns it. (In other words: _exactly_ what Natalia’s been after all this time.)

Yelena pulls away for a moment. Her hazel-eyed gaze flits down to Natalia’s neck, where the handsy blonde from the hotel bar left bruising marks all up and down her flesh. The look in Yelena's eyes is fleeting but damning, and Natalia knows it only serves to further stoke her plutonic ire. 

“Got a key from a nice lady at the bar,” Natalia explains unabashedly, despite that Yelena didn’t ask.

“Was she cute?” Yelena asks, her voice like weathered steel—placid but dangerous. 

And the question… a double-edged blade. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

No good answer; no escape. 

(Just how Natalia likes it.)

So—she leans in close, cuts off her own airway against Yelena’s calloused palm. Her reply is a whisper, a breathless pant: “ _Very_.”

Regardless, it does the job:

The grip around her throat vanishes, and she’s only just begun greedily sucking in a breath of cool air when it hits her. 

(Or perhaps more accurately, _Yelena_ hits her.)

Pain explodes across her left cheek (long healed since Taipei, thankfully): an open-handed slap. The force of it is tremendous (and _almost_ impressive)—knocking Natalia back and onto her side, punching the air (what precious little of it remains) from her lungs in a rush. 

She barely has a moment to straighten her legs (which had previously been trapped beneath the full weight of her body) before Yelena is _on_ her: straddling her hips, curling her dominant hand around Natalia’s throat (tight enough to be a warning but far too loose to really choke her), kneading Natalia’s naked breast with her left. 

Natalia arches herself obscenely into Yelena’s touch as kiss-swollen lips crash _hard_ against her own, and she doesn’t have to fake the keening mewl it rips from her throat, nor the gushing wetness of arousal she can feel soaking her suit bottoms as a direct result. 

Yelena, for her part, is as relentless as ever—biting Natalia’s lower lip hard enough to make her bleed, pinching the stiffened nipple of her right breast with calloused fingers, slotting a jean-clad thigh between Natalia’s legs and pressing down _just so_ against her most sensitive place. 

It's _delicious_ —the rough grind of Yelena’s thigh against her cunt, the damp crotch of her panties no doubt beginning to form a stain on her jeans.

Natalia nudges her hips forward in a wanton bid for more contact, more friction—just _more_ , period. Yelena’s hands leave her for a split second before settling themselves into a harsh grip around either of Natalia’s hips. 

The weight of Yelena’s body vanishes, and suddenly she’s kneeling back on her hindquarters atop the mattress, rough hands yanking Natalia's suit bottoms down her legs and off in one fluid motion. The garment goes flying somewhere off to the side, but Natalia can’t manage to give it much more than a passing thought as cool fingers trace idly through her slippery folds and the sheer sensation of it threatens to overwhelm her entirely. 

“Slut,” Yelena derides her plainly like it’s more a matter of fact than anything else, and Natalia feels her cheeks flush even as she bites back a piercing retort. “You ruined my jeans."

_You hate jeans_ , she thinks but keeps quiet, squirming against Yelena’s fingers. A second later, she’s rewarded for the show of restraint.

Two fingers enter her in one fluid motion, sliding swiftly up to the knuckle with a wet noise that makes Yelena scoff even as Natalia’s cheeks burn with delicious shame. They strain and curl, searching for that roughened patch inside her—Yelena finds it a split second later, and the squeaking moan she rips from Natalia’s throat only seems to spur her further on. 

Her left hand curls itself around Natalia’s throat, pinning her to the mattress even as Yelena’s right hand continues to work her relentlessly: slipping a third finger inside and fucking her with reckless abandon, coarse palm grinding borderline painfully against Natalia’s distended clit at the tail end of every merciless thrust. 

Crude squelching noises fill her ears, coupled with a series of high-pitched whines lewd enough to make a pornstar blush. 

Yelena leans in close, their faces a hair’s breadth apart as she snarls, “Is this what you wanted, _Natka_?” (Her grip around Natalia’s throat doesn’t loosen.)

The diminutive is like a burn on her flesh—the kind she doesn’t quite know whether to loathe or to covet. 

The sensation of Yelena’s fingers withdrawing from her with a slick noise, followed promptly by a harsh open-handed slap upon her cunt has a dismal whimper escaping her even as her hips buck of their own accord—like her body can’t quite decide between squirming away and begging for more. 

“Answer me,” Yelena demands, punctuating her directive with another hard slap to her cunt that has Natalia biting her lip hard in an effort to stifle a whimper, her thighs twitching with the considerable effort she’s exerting to keep her legs spread. 

“Y-Yes. Yes,” she gasps out, cursing the stutter in her words. “This is what I wanted, _Lennusiya_.”

Another open-handed smack against her cunt. (In hindsight, employing that particular derived term of endearment may have been pushing it.) 

“Very cute.” Her grip tightens around Natalia’s throat as she places another slap between her thighs, harder this time. Natalia’s hips twitch, a choked moan escaping her compressed airway. 

“What,” she pants breathlessly, "you get to use nicknames and I don’t?”

Another slap. Another keening whimper torn from her battered throat. 

Yelena doesn’t waver. (Not that Natalia expects her to.) “You want to come, don’t you?”

Natalia clenches her jaw but gives a shallow nod. 

One slap, followed by yet another quickly on its heels. “I didn’t quite catch that."

Her cunt smarts with a maddening mixture of pleasure and pain; she _aches_ to close her thighs. “Y- _Yes_.”

Yelena frowns, feigning ignorance even. “Yes, what?” 

Her hand comes down to absentmindedly massage Natalia’s reddened cunt, an unmistakable warning and pacifying balm all in one.

“ _Yes_ ,” Natalia manages tersely, "I want to come.”

Yelena plunges three fingers back inside her without ceremony, grinding her palm against Natalia’s clit until she chokes out a breathless whine. From there, all bets are off: Yelena sets a brutal and truly unforgiving pace that has Natalia arching salaciously into her without a hint of inhibition, her grip tightening like a vice around Natalia’s throat, warm mouth descending upon a straining turgid nipple and laving it wetly with her tongue. 

Natalia doesn’t stand a chance. Her climax surges low in her belly; growing, growing, _growing_ at a wholeheartedly blinding pace until it surpasses her entirely beneath a crashing tidal wave of unadulterated euphoria. 

In a matter of minutes, she’s coming—coming _hard_ with a stifled shriek, cunt spasming wildly around Yelena’s fingers, hips trembling in a frantic effort to ride out the waves of her orgasm against Yelena’s palm.

It’s the first of many that afternoon. After all, Natalia had done a damn good job of pushing her buttons, and Yelena has always ( _always_ ) fought and argued and _fucked_ as if she has something to prove regardless. 

Of course, this time is no exception: Natalia quickly loses count of the number of times she comes at Yelena’s hand (though she knows it’s a lot). The younger woman doesn’t even bother to undress for the first three or four orgasms, let alone allow Natalia to touch her where it matters, to give _her_ the same kind of staggering ecstasy she’s been imparting upon Natalia for the better part of the last hour. 

Rather, Yelena's focus is quite singular; pushing Natalia into climax after climax, wringing her body for every ounce of pleasure she can manage until she’s spent, twitching and exhausted, crying out at every brush against her overstimulated folds like it hurts (because it really, really does). 

And even then, she’ll wrench open Natalia's thighs once again and begin lapping at her raw and reddened clit with a wolfish grin, forcing Natalia to sob her way through yet another devastating peak; on and on and on until the pleasure wanes entirely and the agony of every climax hurts her something awful and she’s begging, begging, _begging_ Yelena to _please_ stop. 

Somewhere along the way (typically when Natalia’s already halfway to the edge of utter delirium), Yelena will allow herself her own indulgences—assisting Natalia’s trembling hands in (finally) divesting her of clothing; grinding herself to a silent open-mouthed climax atop Natalia’s thigh; tangling her fingers in Natalia’s fiery-red hair and grinding her cunt against Natalia’s face until she comes. 

It’s a matter of control (or at the very least, the illusion of it), and Natalia knows that, just as she always has. 

(Though, sometimes… sometimes, she finds herself wishing it didn’t have to be.)

Sometimes, she wonders if it feels like winning to Yelena—having control. 

She thinks it must. Though if winning is being in control, then losing is being submissive… and yet, that never feels like defeat where Natalia is concerned. 

36 hours later, Natalia falls asleep in a safe house on the isle of Malta thinking that maybe there are no ‘winners’ and ‘losers’—not in life, not in war, not in… whatever it is she and Yelena are doing. That maybe it’s all relative; that maybe it’s enough to just _be_. 

(It's simultaneously the most unsettling and comforting thought she’s had in a very long time.)

— —

**Author's Note:**

> the fact taht yelena literally (basically) tells natasha "you play too much" sldkjflj i make myself laugh
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass to come yell at me there!)


End file.
